Read to Me
by CaptainSiesta
Summary: It's WWII. America is new to the battlefield, and he's having trouble sleeping. One-shot. USUK. Historical. [Image by PabutteGO on dA]


The room was dark.

One small candle by the bedside provided some light to the room. England had insisted that they turn off the lanterns in order to preserve energy, and America complied with the bravest smile he could muster. To anyone else, he might have looked like he really knew what he was doing—he might have looked like he was ready to take on anyone, Nazis and whoever else stood in the Allied Forces' way.

America always told his friends that he was the hero, and that he had entered World War II to "save the day", and all of that. He wanted to see a free Europe as much as anyone else—he wanted to see Germany pay for the horrors he committed.

How could he tell them how _terrified_ he truly was?

America hardly felt prepared for the battlefield—he couldn't even hold a gun without it shaking uncontrollably. This was the biggest war he had ever been involved with. Even as he closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep, he couldn't help but imagine horrific pictures in his mind. The sad and desolate faces he had seen at Germany's concentration camps stuck with him—the children, especially.

Most of all, he thought of England. He was a starved warrior, living on rationed food and recycled materials in order to put all of his efforts into the war. He had always been small, but now, more than ever, America felt like he could have been crushed by the dominating force of Germany.

England just seemed so sick, and so tired.

And yet, he always found it in him to comfort America when he needed it the most. America was new to this kind of war. He'd already gotten physically sick on multiple occasions, but England was always there to help him through the roughest patches.

America rolled over and wrapped an arm around England in a gentle embrace. He wasn't sure if the other nation was awake or not, but he just needed someone to hold onto.

"America… You're still awake." It could have been a question, but England said it firmly in his fatigued voice. His familiar pair of green eyes opened groggily.

America chuckled a little nervously. "Yeah. Uh, were you asleep?"

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it?" England groaned in reply. It took him a moment to realize that America's arm was draped over his torso, but even when he did realize it, he had quite the different reaction than the other nation expected. Normally he would have said, _'Oh, get off of me, you sodding git'_ or something like that. But this time, he simply looked at America's arm and frowned.

"… You're trembling," England said plainly.

"I-I'm cold," America said in quick defense.

England's eyes scanned the other nation's face in search of something—America knew he saw past the quick lie he crafted.

"You aren't feeling well," he reasoned as he ran his hands over America's chest. "Perhaps a glass of water might help, or…"

"… I can't sleep," America replied, in defeat.

America couldn't read England's face when he heard the answer. At first he seemed slightly shocked, probably wondering what kind of sickness America felt. But it only took a moment for him to understand what his companion needed.

"America," England began, with a knowing sigh. He gently took one of America's hands in his own and massaged the knuckles with his thumb. "You don't have to be scared—"

"I'm not _scared_… I just… I keep seeing these damn pictures in my head, and I can't _sleep_."

For a few moments, the two of them were nearly silent. America couldn't stop his hands from shaking now, and England was still holding onto one of his hands firmly. America had no intention of talking about any of the nightmares that were keeping him awake, and he knew England wouldn't ask. Instead, America had a silly idea.

"Can you read something to me?" he asked sheepishly. England raised his head so that he could look directly into America's eyes. The act itself was so sincere that America couldn't help but smile in return. "Just to help me sleep."

England furrowed his eyebrows in thought for a moment.

"Lie down," England said. "I'll see what I can do."

America watched as England reached for the bedside table and gently pulled out the drawer. Elegantly, England slipped on his reading glasses and lifted a slim book out of the drawer before closing it again. When he sat up against the headboard of their shared bed, America sidled over and rested his head on England's lap.

He felt safer already.

"I haven't done this in ages, Alfred."

"I don't care, Arthur. Read."

"This is a book of Shakespeare, I'll have you know. I haven't practiced this!"

America smiled gently when he felt England's hand on his shoulder. Instinctively, he grabbed it in his own hand and squeezed it.

"I just want to hear your voice," he reasoned as he closed his eyes.

England stroked America's hand with his thumb and opened the book with his other hand. Cautiously, he began to read:

_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players…_


End file.
